In this prison, the ‘dayroom’ is a common area where all the uncommon souls – the offender population – congregate. Most come to the dayroom to perform all manner of inconsideration, smacking tables with chess pieces, cards, dominoes, and fists of anger. Some, made mentally ill either by nature or time, wander around letting dead skin fall from their bodies to be swept down one of the many floor drains, until one day they disappear altogether.
The hapless State experiments shuffle about, carrying out a primal social dance, a continuous pecking order struggle to determine who the coolest monkey is. The players are ever-changing, but the wicked waltz remains the same, and nauseating to witness. For what humans commonly refer to as ‘lower animals’, there are reasons to build a social hierarchy, their strutting around and exhibiting odd behavior means something exciting or necessary hangs in the balance, such as food and resources or a prospective mate to ensure their genes are passed on and their lineage strengthened. But in prison we’re all provided the same amount of food and there are no mates to speak of – yet some still try.
The minutes we’re killing while witnessing this horror are marked on an unreliable, cheap Walmart clock on the wall or the bit of light that beams through the barred skylights in the ceiling and shine into our gray tomb. The sun traces the day on the bare concrete floor and moves across as the hours proceed, a primitive sundial. It’s nine a.m. so the light is about three quarters of the way down the Western wall and will move downward through the day, out across the floor, then up the Eastern wall, following a funeral procession of dead minutes. The bright sun spot a stoic observer of passive human treachery.
In the air-conditioning unit, a worn bearing sings a whirring aria, the constant sick hum of poorly maintained machinery raising the overall level of irritation in the homo sapiens exhibit, and a poor, deranged man walks in circles talking to himself. His name is Melvin, and he’s been here about 35 years. Melvin didn’t kill anyone, but he’ll die in prison. He signifies what can happen to anyone who has been locked up for a long time. Melvin walks around like a caged animal and talks to himself. He sometimes stands in the shower with a t-shirt on and argues with himself for an hour. His body was imprisoned, and his mind followed shortly thereafter. The healthy light has long since been extinguished from his eyes, his pained orbs now cloudy and gray. They could chemically lobotomize him if they cared that he was tortured by his semi-conscious psychosis. But alas, they do not care. A chemical lobotomy would only render him a quivering mound of medicated flesh, allowing him to escape the punishment he deserves. Melvin is sustained by rumors and cheap carbohydrates provided by the State. The rumors are the same as they’ve always been. They go something like, “Take heart for the times they are a changin’, and the State may be admitting that the current prison model is unsustainable.” I imagine this gives Melvin hope that he may make it aboard that change train and not have to die in this unholy scab heap.
Melvin often asks me questions and hopes I’ll reply with something to sustain him, but I refuse to provide false hope, it is cruel. Some laugh at him. I do not. I am more concerned than amused. Melvin has suffered enough, but I am also afraid that with no warning, I will begin to argue with myself. It may have already started, as people say I often appear to be whispering to myself when no one’s around. Apparently, my lips are always moving, which I had previously been unaware of. I hope its only the monotony affecting me and I’m not losing my mind. These things only exacerbate an already intense feeling of urgency that life is passing me and my friends by.
These friends I’ve grown up in prison with were children when they committed their offenses, but they have since grown into admirable men. The sometimes overwhelming sense of urgency I feel is more for them than myself. I have a light at the end of the tunnel, they do not. I don’t want anyone else to end up like poor old Melvin. I am told that life’s tough, and I can personally attest to that. Prison life is a bit harder, yet people consistently ask me what prison is like, and all I can offer is this. If you want to know what prison is, prison is being relentlessly pummeled by the guilt and shame of our offenses and constantly bombarded with the irritation of the aforementioned malcontents, defiling the closest thing I have to a home. It isn’t what some would have you believe. It isn’t Syria, but it also isn’t a nonstop party with cable TV and catered food. Its prison… It cannot be romanticized or dramatized because what it is, at its core, is ugly and shameful – a dumping ground for throwaways and undesirables.
If it’s punishment you want… mission accomplished.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Joshua King was the judges’ second place choice in our recent writing contest. He is a talented writer and was also one of a handful of Honorable Mentions in our previous contest. All the writers rose to the occasion for this prompt, and Mr. King was actually the most consistantly voted for amongst the judges, with everyone placing him in their top three. Joshua can be contacted at:
Joshua King #69192
ISCC-F2-28A
P.O. Box 70010
Boise, Idaho 83707
